Page 15 of Gone for the Ghost
The air shimmers, and suddenly he’s there—not translucent this time, but solid, real, kneeling beside me on the closet floor with an expression of such profound gratitude that it takes my breath away.His blue eyes are bright with something that looks suspiciously like tears he shouldn’t be able to shed.
“You finished it,” he says softly, reaching out to touch the letter with reverent fingers.“You completed what I couldn’t.”
“Julian, how are you…”
“Love,” he says simply, as if that explains everything about supernatural manifestation and the temporary suspension of otherworldly limitations.“Love makes its own rules.”
Before I can ask what he means, his hand cups my face with warmth that feels impossible and absolutely real.“Thank you,” he whispers, and then he’s kissing me—lips soft and solid against mine, carrying the taste of possibility and the promise of connection that transcends every boundary I thought existed between living and dead.
The kiss is gentle, reverent, filled with everything he couldn’t say during our weeks of careful distance.It’s gratitude and love and goodbye all wrapped into one perfect moment that feels both eternal and achingly brief.
When he pulls back, his thumb traces my cheek with tenderness that makes my heart race.“You’ve given me something I thought was lost forever,” he says.“The courage to hope.”
“Julian, don’t go,” I start, but he’s already beginning to fade, becoming translucent again and then transparent.
“Some stories require patience,” he says with that familiar sardonic smile, though there’s warmth in it now instead of distance.“Trust the process, love.”
And then, just before he vanishes completely, he winks—that same infuriating, charming expression that first made me think he might be more than just a grumpy ghost with opinions about my coffee consumption.
The closet falls silent, but it’s different now—charged with possibility instead of hollow with loss.I fold the letter carefully, tucking it into my purse next to the contract that will launch my writing career, next to all the evidence of the life I’m building through courage rather than safety.
Maybe I’m imagining things.Maybe completing Julian’s letter to Victoria was just my way of processing grief, finding closure through creative expression rather than spiritual communication.
Or maybe some stories are powerful enough to rewrite their own endings when someone finally has the courage to say what needs to be said, to choose love over fear, to believe that the heart knows possibilities the mind hasn’t learned to calculate.
I guess I’ll find out.
But as I finish packing, leaving space for hope in boxes that could just as easily carry disappointment, I find myself humming something that sounds suspiciously like a love song.Because sometimes the most revolutionary act is believing that impossible things become possible when you’re brave enough to love them into existence.
And if anyone deserves that kind of revolutionary love, it’s a century-old ghost who taught me what partnership means and a Broadway actress who loved him enough to disappear to keep him safe.
Some stories end with separation.Others end with the courage to write new chapters, even when you can’t see how the plot might resolve.
I’m betting on the second kind.I’m betting on us.
Chapter 8
Julian
Sixmonthsofthemost difficult work I’ve ever undertaken, and I’m finally here.
Not translucent, not flickering between visible and void, not hovering at the edges of existence like some supernatural coward afraid to claim space in the living world.Completely solid, completely real, standing in the back of Sweet Curves Bakery watching the woman I love sign copies of the book we created together.
The transformation required everything I had—every day choosing presence over protection, every moment fighting the instinct to retreat when being real meant being vulnerable.Lily’s letter showed me something I’d spent ninety-eight years refusing to acknowledge.Love doesn’t replace what came before.It builds on it.Victoria taught me I could love completely.Lily taught me I could love again.
The choice to become solid wasn’t magic.It was a decision, repeated daily until it became conviction, until it became the foundation of new existence.Each morning I chose to inhabit space rather than haunt it, to participate in life rather than observe it, to trust that some connections are strong enough to transcend every limitation including the ones we place on ourselves.
Now she sits at a small table by the window, afternoon sunlight catching the auburn highlights in those wild curls I’ve grown to love, discussing her paranormal romance with readers who have no idea they’re witnessing the real-life version of the love story they’re purchasing.She looks radiant—confident in ways she wasn’t when I first encountered her unpacking boxes and arguing with invisible neighbors.Success suits her, but more than that, courage suits her.The woman who completed my unfinished letter, who chose to fight for impossible love instead of accepting practical alternatives, deserves every happiness this moment represents.
But there’s something in her eyes when she thinks no one is looking, a shadow that success couldn’t quite erase.She’s missing me, and the knowledge fills me with something between guilt and hope.Guilt because I caused that sadness through my fear-driven retreat.Hope because it means our connection survived my attempts to sever it.
She’s missing me, but she doesn’t know I’ve been building my way back to her one conscious choice at a time.
The last reader leaves with their signed copy, chattering about paranormal romance and happy endings and the delicious impossibility of ghosts who learn to love again.Lily begins packing her signing materials with the efficient movements of someone who’s mastered the business side of creative success, but her attention drifts to the window, to thoughts I can practically see moving across her face.
That’s when she looks up and sees me standing by the door, completely solid and absolutely real, holding flowers and the vintage engagement ring I’ve been carrying since 1924.
Her face cycles through shock, disbelief, and finally pure joy so radiant it makes my unnecessary heart feel like it’s beating again.The signing materials slip from her hands as she stares at me, drinking in the impossible reality of my presence.
